Hi! My name is Angela Anderson and I am a card-carrying pervert. Oh, I didn’t start out that way. All us girls begin life as sweet young things, wearing cute little dresses and puffy socks but that basically gets flushed down the toilet when we grow a pair of tits and start to notice “boys”. What is it in our defective chromosome strands that make us want to please these penis-swinging simpletons so much?

Pull up a stool and I shall regale thou with my sad tale of maladjusted woe.

So, I’m standing at a bar one night, basically screaming, “I have a uterus, come fill it up with your effluvia,” when I meet this gentleman of the opposite sex. I’ve met a few gentlemen of the same sex in bars but I was way drunker than I was on this particular evening. Eventually, after a few clumsy dances and raft of infantile pick-up lines, he takes me home, gives me a pretty good post-13-Heineken-humping and we start going out. Somewhere along the way, in our deep and meaningful relationship, he finds out that I like to masturbate. Well hell, who doesn’t? Especially, when the alternative that night is either fat, married or both. I’ve battered and bludgeoned my bliss-bump since before I grew hair down there and I’ve had some pretty pleasing results over the years.

Coincidentally, it turns out that he likes to watch girlies diddle their dumpling as much as I love rubbing the bald-headed monk. Great! I can cum as often as I want after he’s emptied his woman-weapon into me and he’s perfectly happy to just sit back and watch me do a few encores. But as with everything in life – this mutually beneficial activity “progressed”. At first, it was, “Masturbate on the bed for me, honey.” No problem. Then it was, “Put it down your pants and do yourself, right now,” as I was washing the dishes or watching television. Next, I was doing myself in the car for his amusement. We’d be driving to friends for a dinner and the call would ring out, “Wank it for me, baby.” And like the numbskull that I am, I’d unzip my Levis and beat myself into a screaming froth.

Then, it was parking lots and change rooms and restaurants with long table cloths. Jed loved to watch me make my ring-finger dizzy while trying to order trout almandine from a very suspicious waiter. Attempting to climax quietly in a room full of well-dressed people is almost an impossibility. You try it. Imagine having a hand soaking in your own goo, entire armories of gut-clenching cum bombs exploding up into your abdomen and all the while you’re less than a foot away from a woman you don’t know who’s politely nibbling on cilantro. And if you’re really lucky, he only asks you to do it once.

That’s when things started to become complicated. I was getting a real taste for this asinine, not to mention highly risky, behavior at about the same time as I was losing my taste for Jed. Masturbating while in line to watch a movie was now far more satisfying to me than “offerin’ up the pink” to Mr. Wonderful when we got home. So I split and took the two fingers on my right hand with me.

And then my solitary sex-acts took a decided turn for the weird. I started muff mauling all over town and the riskier the situation, the better. There was just something about loosening up my jeans in public and dropping my hand deep into my gravy grotto that really churned my butter. It was so wet, you have could hunted ducks down there before my fingers even got near the thing. Then one day, I predictably got caught. I was about thirty seconds away from sounding the growler gong in the back of a café when an elderly gentleman, on the way to the john, caught sight of what I was doing. He didn’t say anything; he just stood there and watched me. (Men are so easily entertained, aren’t they?) I figured I might as will keep going and looked straight into his eyes as I finished up with an unbelievable box-buster of an orgasm. I even squirted a little bit – they have to be huge for me to do that. The elderly man handed me some napkins off a nearby table and smiled. Not a lascivious smile. A warm “thank you” sort of an expression. I took them off him, pulled my pants down to the middle of my thighs and wiped up my spillage. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to give him a good view of the fairgrounds in return for his kindness.

Shit! Now I was hooked on getting caught! Just the thought of it would turn my naughty parts to the consistency of yogurt. The sauna at the gym was a good place for “being disturbed while engaged.” Sometimes the woman walking in on me would politely ask me to stop but more often than not, I’d be invited to carry on. A couple of times, an accommodating young wench would get down on her knees and finish up the job for me. I’m not really into women that much and I’ve never done a feedbag face-plant but when a tender lass wants to help a gal out….I have no complaints at all.

Like nice Mr. Old Guy, most of the men who “discovered me” mid-pud-pound would just stand and stare. Then, I’d look in their eyes or watch the bulge in their pants grow as I vigorously slapped the vicar. I did receive a sizeable collection of telephone numbers from my unexpected audience, but I never called. Occasionally, someone would threaten to report me but that only meant that they wanted a blowjob or a quick-one out in their car. Blush! I liked the shame of that too.

So things were going along pretty smoothly until I went to visit my mother. (Boy, how many women have uttered that phrase in their lives?!) I couldn’t really masturbate in public around her town because it was so small. Random people knowing about your “interesting pastime” and your mother knowing are two entirely different things. I couldn’t even have a quick rub and a poke at night because her bedsprings were so old and squeaky that every time I’d involuntarily thrust out my pelvis, it sounded like I had half the WWF on top of me. No, I regrettably had to go on the wank-wagon till I got on the train to go home. My ring finger was twitching and ready for action by the time I reached the station that morning. I was getting so wet in anticipation; I could have kept goldfish in my underwear. All I needed now was a secluded spot that my fellow passengers were bound to walk past and I could settle in for two hours of serious button bashing. It was while I was searching for an optimal location to spend some quality time with my drizzle factory that I spotted this guy watching porno on his phone while tenderizing his meat. Right there on the train! At first, I was shocked. I was actually thinking about turning him in when the obvious occurred to me. “What the fuck were you just about to do, bitch?” (I can be so very hard on myself, sometimes.)

He obviously hadn’t heard me coming because he almost jumped out of his skin when I cleared my throat next to his ear. He pulled a face of terror so amazing; it would have put Vanessa Cartwright to shame. Instantly, he tried to cover up his stink worm with his hands and then tried to shove it back into his pants. I put my hand firmly on his shoulder to stop him.

“You put that thing away and I will scream this train to a halt, do you understand me?” I barked.

Derek nodded his head. Man was he frightened.

“Now, you are going to continue on and finish the job you started but you can put that stupid phone away. Stare at my tits, if you need something to jerk-off too.”

I could tell that a round of self-pleasuring was the last thing he wanted to indulge in at that moment but I wasn’t taking no for an answer. After about thirty-seconds of incredibly awkward silence, he reluctantly re-gripped his piss-pole and started to apply rhythmic stimulation. Slowly at first, but I could see that he was becoming increasingly interested in the end game as he went on.

“Right before you come, I want you to look me right in the eyes. Got that?”

Derek nodded his head while beating his other head senseless. It was now approaching Showtime. He gazed up at me for a second but then made this groany noise and his eyes involuntarily slammed shut. I immediately looked down at his cock. And there is was. Three or four thin streams of creamy-white ooze shot a half a foot in the air, in quick succession. They seemed to rise up in slow motion and then cascade down all over his pubic hair and pants. Once Derek had regained his composure, he looked at me, wondering what further horrors lay in store. I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and got down on my knees beside him. He sat still while I gently sopped up his spunk deposits. I softly took his rapidly shrinking wiener into my hand and wiped off his glans with the cottony cloth. I then concluded my cleaning duties with a quick dusting of his shaft and balls.

“There you go,” I said, as I looked up at him and smiled. “You should probably put that thing away now before someone less open minded catches you ‘at it’”.

Once again, Derek complied. I sort of liked men complying.

When the train reached the station, I let Mr. Handy buy me a drink. I almost felt sorry for him. I mean, when I want a serious session of self-satisfaction I don’t have to take a great big wad of flesh out of my Dockers and haphazardly wave it around in the open air. And there’s no “sticky shrapnel” all over my blouse and eyebrows when I’m done. Plus, I get to do it over and over and over again.

I took Derek home with me that night and instructed him on exactly how I wanted him to fuck me. Lordy, I got a man to everything just right! Yes, ladies, it can be done. The next morning, just for a lark, I told him to whip it out and thwap it while I ate my breakfast cereal and he did. Now I get him to spank it when he’s washing the dishes, watching television or on the way to a friend’s house in the car. He carries around a Baggie to shoot his spew into. I have him hold up his handiwork when he’s finished just to see how much is in there.

So far this relationship has worked out pretty well. So, next week I’m thinking of taking him to a restaurant…with long tablecloths.